Radiation wrapped up last Friday, and I couldn't have had a bigger smile on my face handing over that shitty paper vest and walking out the doors for the final time. I bought myself a red velvet bundt cake from Nothing Bundt Cakes, then went home and slept for pretty much the rest of the afternoon. I haven't been able to take a nap since treatment started - fatigue and insomnia have been my biggest foes throughout this process, so being able to just veg out for the rest of the day was great.
I had a good weekend, too. Saturday night, I went to dinner and spent time with Paulina. And then Sunday, my friend Chris and I made use of my christmas presents he and Becky gave me last year and went to the shooting range. I'd been asking to go for a while, and we finally had time. It was both nerve-wracking and fun! Shooting is much harder than it looks, and I need more practice to work on my aim. Luckily, Chris is a patient teacher. Then we had dinner with Becky and spent the evening watching American Pie. Which, by the way, came out in 1999, and people who were born the year that movie came out can now drive. WHAT THE HECK?! Where has time gone? If that doesn't make you feel old, I don't know what does.
But then Monday came around, and I felt incredibly lost not having to get ready for a mid-day trip to the radiation center. I had to force myself to get out of the house and just go somewhere for a little while, so as not to get too wrapped up in the panic about what's next as far as treatment is concerned.
Yesterday, Teresa and I spent the day at the Monterey Aquarium, and had a good time. I started to realize earlier today that I was feeling a sense of calm and peace for the first time probably since before diagnosis. I felt light and free and content. The word fluffy came to mind for whatever reason. It has been an incredibly long time since I've felt this way, and I honestly didn't really know if I'd ever get to feel like this again. Some people might brush that off, saying that this is only temporary, and while that's true, I have a say in how I let it effect my outlook on the future. And I really didn't know if I'd be happy again. The last time I was truly happy, something bad happened (uh, cancer), so in my mind, those two things are mutually exclusive, even though they shouldn't be.
Don't get me wrong, there are plenty of things I'd like to change about my life and make different, but I'm happy. I can finally accept people's commendations, and agree with them. I am strong. And I am proud of myself. I look back, and see how far I've come, and I'm amazed. In December, surgery followed by 18 weeks of chemotherapy seemed like a life time, and tomorrow is my birthday and I think, where has all the time gone? All of these treatments already seem like a distant memory.
A week ago, if you'd asked me if I was excited about my birthday, I would've told you no. In fact, when Becky asked me that very question last Thursday, and my answer was "No, because I'm afraid I'll never be as happy as I was when it was my birthday last year again." She responded by slapping my arm and telling me to snap out of it. But that was my thought process. Today, I'm not necessarily excited for my birthday tomorrow, but I'm accepting of it. There's going to be anxiety and fear laced in with survivorship, but at least I'm alive, able to celebrate another birthday. For that I'm grateful. If that's the silver lining to putting myself through all this treatment, then I'll take it.
I'm not done living.
Wednesday, August 26, 2015
Wednesday, August 19, 2015
Roller Coaster
I wish I could better describe the roller coaster of emotions that come with cancer. One moment to the next is uncertain. I could be happy, or at the very least content, and then burst into tears. And I know that people without cancer experience these same mood swings, so it's not all inclusive to my experience. But, the cancer makes it different.
I know I could attribute the mood swings to a variety of things - the possibility that my period is about to come back, the fact that I'm still in a state of medically induced menopause, or simply that I'm a 27 year old female. But I know that it's deeper than that. I have anxiety and fear regarding the end of my various phases of treatment, and those attribute to a lot of my wavering emotions. I had an insane amount of anxiety at the end of chemo. I didn't allow myself to get excited about it because my thought was "well, now what? What are we going to be doing to actively treat the cancer after this?" Then came radiation, and that quieted the anxiety for a few weeks. But now the end of radiation is near, and that question has resurfaced. There's a lot of fear associated with "survivorship" that people fail to realize. Cancer is this all-encompasing thing for however long you have to deal with it, and then treatment is over, and you're left in a fog.
What comes next? Who am I without cancer?
It's bittersweet to me that I still have to go in for Herceptin. On one hand, I want my cancer experience to be over. But on the other hand, I'm grateful that I'm not being thrown out to the wolves and forgotten about. Instead, my gradual decline of cancer appointments is giving me a little bit more time to accept the end of treatment, and what it means to live after cancer.
That concept is something I'm struggling with. I feel inadequate in life. I don't think I'm smart. Even before cancer happened, I felt as though I wasn't doing enough with my time. And now, after cancer, everyone expects you to become this amazing, strong, proactive person with a zest for life, and that's a hard expectation to fulfill. I'm putting all this pressure on myself to do something or be someone important, when in reality, I should be more gentle with myself considering what I, and my body, have been through. I really do want to make a difference somehow, but I need to stop thinking that I have to figure it out right now.
Earlier today, I let myself get lost in this fear of not having my life figured out to the point where I made myself feel physically sick. I ugly cried in my car while on my way to support group, hiding behind my sunglasses. My car is my sanctuary, and I just let it out. I had tried to suppress all of these fears I had about not "finding myself" after cancer, but today I let myself feel my feelings. It helped to be honest with myself and realize that I needed to let the tears happen, and then going to support group helped. Because the other women that were there don't have their shit figured out, either. We're all young, and still in the midst of fighting for our lives, so we don't have to have anything figured out just yet. I need to give myself permission to believe that and accept it.
I'm now drugged up on Ativan, because the looming panic returned after the group ended and I was walking towards my car, and I decided that being in a fog was better than being in a panic. Today was a high dose cancer day - radiation, doctor appointment, Herceptin, and support group, and it fell on a day where I really didn't want to do any of it, but had to. I'm hoping that the Ativan works its wonders and puts me at ease, and helps me sleep.
Tomorrow is a new day. Hopefully I'll be on a happier roller coaster by then.
I know I could attribute the mood swings to a variety of things - the possibility that my period is about to come back, the fact that I'm still in a state of medically induced menopause, or simply that I'm a 27 year old female. But I know that it's deeper than that. I have anxiety and fear regarding the end of my various phases of treatment, and those attribute to a lot of my wavering emotions. I had an insane amount of anxiety at the end of chemo. I didn't allow myself to get excited about it because my thought was "well, now what? What are we going to be doing to actively treat the cancer after this?" Then came radiation, and that quieted the anxiety for a few weeks. But now the end of radiation is near, and that question has resurfaced. There's a lot of fear associated with "survivorship" that people fail to realize. Cancer is this all-encompasing thing for however long you have to deal with it, and then treatment is over, and you're left in a fog.
What comes next? Who am I without cancer?
It's bittersweet to me that I still have to go in for Herceptin. On one hand, I want my cancer experience to be over. But on the other hand, I'm grateful that I'm not being thrown out to the wolves and forgotten about. Instead, my gradual decline of cancer appointments is giving me a little bit more time to accept the end of treatment, and what it means to live after cancer.
That concept is something I'm struggling with. I feel inadequate in life. I don't think I'm smart. Even before cancer happened, I felt as though I wasn't doing enough with my time. And now, after cancer, everyone expects you to become this amazing, strong, proactive person with a zest for life, and that's a hard expectation to fulfill. I'm putting all this pressure on myself to do something or be someone important, when in reality, I should be more gentle with myself considering what I, and my body, have been through. I really do want to make a difference somehow, but I need to stop thinking that I have to figure it out right now.
Earlier today, I let myself get lost in this fear of not having my life figured out to the point where I made myself feel physically sick. I ugly cried in my car while on my way to support group, hiding behind my sunglasses. My car is my sanctuary, and I just let it out. I had tried to suppress all of these fears I had about not "finding myself" after cancer, but today I let myself feel my feelings. It helped to be honest with myself and realize that I needed to let the tears happen, and then going to support group helped. Because the other women that were there don't have their shit figured out, either. We're all young, and still in the midst of fighting for our lives, so we don't have to have anything figured out just yet. I need to give myself permission to believe that and accept it.
I'm now drugged up on Ativan, because the looming panic returned after the group ended and I was walking towards my car, and I decided that being in a fog was better than being in a panic. Today was a high dose cancer day - radiation, doctor appointment, Herceptin, and support group, and it fell on a day where I really didn't want to do any of it, but had to. I'm hoping that the Ativan works its wonders and puts me at ease, and helps me sleep.
Tomorrow is a new day. Hopefully I'll be on a happier roller coaster by then.
Tuesday, August 18, 2015
Never Hide
Check out Nalie's TedTalk about being true to yourself.
"Never hide your imperfections, because that's what makes you beautiful. Never hide your weaknesses because that's what makes you strong. Never hide who you are because there is no one out there in the world like you, and someone out there needs you. The real you."
http://www.nalie.ca/tedtalk/
"Never hide your imperfections, because that's what makes you beautiful. Never hide your weaknesses because that's what makes you strong. Never hide who you are because there is no one out there in the world like you, and someone out there needs you. The real you."
http://www.nalie.ca/tedtalk/
Sunday, August 16, 2015
I'm being published!
About a month and a half ago, Alicia and I were lounging about her apartment. She was working, and I was reading on my kindle and also playing and snuggling with Sam, the dog that she and her roommate were watching that week. I needed a distraction, and to just be anywhere but my house, and Alicia offered her couch, despite her having to work. I promised not to distract her.
If it's not yet clear from my writing about her, I love, adore, and admire Alicia immensely. She once sent me an e-card for my birthday that said "Happy birthday to a friend of a friend that I now like more than the original friend." She's been with me through several relationships, watched me grow as a person, engaged with me in doorstop banditry (I know you're reading this, and this seriously needs to be revived), and she's still loved me along the way. In fact, when I first told her about my diagnosis, she sent me this long, heartfelt email of things she thought I should do at the start of my experience with cancer, offering her company whenever needed. She even took me up on my offer to sit in with me at one of my chemo sessions, getting to witness me looking like Strawberry Shortcake with the cold caps on my head.
But, I digress. At this lounge day at her apartment, every now and again, we'd talk about my writing. I admitted that I wanted to do something with it, but I didn't know where to start. On more than one occasion in the past, I've said to her, "I'm not a writer." and every single time, she counters with, "Whether you think you are or not, you're a writer." Alicia is an incredibly talented writer. I've followed her various blogs ever since I've known her. We share this passion for the written word that I think bonds us together in a way that only other bibliophiles could understand. We also have this intense love of love that makes us complete kindred spirits. So, this afternoon hangout that slowly whispered its way into evening, had us very minimally brainstorming what I could do with my writing. We didn't really come up with a solution that night, but a few days later, she emailed me a link to a writing contest. It was being put on by Bay Area Cancer Connections, a nonprofit for women facing breast and ovarian cancer based in Menlo Park, and it was a call for essays about your cancer experience. This was the perfect place to start, right?
But as soon as this opportunity was in front of me, I got cold feet. Having to relive the fears, anxiety, pain, heartbreak, and frustration of the last 8 months suddenly seemed terrifying. I spent the first few months of my experience trying to compartmentalize it from the rest of my life, choosing to act as though it was just a thing I was dealing with rather than a major life event. Then I embraced it, admitting that it was something that I couldn't ignore, and wanted to find a way to make an impact. I would attempt to write something, and then stop. A paragraph here, a sentence there. Alicia would check in on me to see if I'd made any progress, and I continued to promise her I'd send something soon. Finally, I decided to sit down and just write. I typed and typed until I hit 1,000 words, and then I sent it to her. But, within an hour, I emailed her again, saying that I felt like what I'd written was too vague. I tried to condense my ENTIRE cancer story in a measly two pages. I told her it seemed like maybe I needed to be more focused on perhaps just one issue that had come my way through treatment - relationships, sex and dating, body image, egg harvesting, and mortality, to name a few. I knew in my heart which topic would be the most interesting, but I asked Facebook instead. And, of course, they chose the topic that I wanted to write about the least. It was the most personal, the most heartbreaking because of what happened to me during the decision process, but, it was the most real. My experience with IVF. And what's real is what's interesting. It's never been my goal to sugarcoat my cancer experience. Being raw and real is what makes me who I am. And it's a topic many people don't talk about.
So, again, I put off writing about the topic, because my heart ached every time I even thought about my experience with egg harvesting. The back and forth of trying to make the decision. The anxiety I felt at the instructive class on how to administer injections - with my mom there by my side. Desperately missing the security and support of a partner. But, the deadline was fast approaching, and I didn't want to follow my past (in where I'd say I wanted to do something, but I'd let the opportunity pass me by because I was too afraid). I was going to submit something to this contest. So, I finally started typing again. It was hard to do, because I could tell the story about my IVF experience a thousand different ways, and it would be a different story every time. I sent off my draft to Alicia, and she artfully edited it in a way, that when I read her revisions, I cried as if I was reading someone else's story. But, it was mine, just made so much more raw and real by Alicia's talented hand.
I found out yesterday that my piece WON the contest! At first I was excited, and then I started to down talk myself, thinking "The only reason they picked mine is because no one else submitted anything." But, I realized that wasn't a nice thing to say about myself, so I let that thought go. And so what if that's the truth, I'm still going to be published! My submission will be published in the Bay Area Cancer Connections September newsletter, and I'll be doing a reading of the piece at Kepler's books on September 1 at 7pm.
This is just a small step in the right direction to trying to turn something negative into a positive. I couldn't be more thrilled! Keep an eye out for a post with the submission that won.
And to my dearest, darlingest Alicia - you astonish me at every turn. Your love for life, for love, for words, and your passion for wanting to help others find and follow their dreams are just small parts of what make you so incredibly amazing. From our doorstop banditry days, to you bringing me cookies after I just had my heart broken (or more like put into a meat grinder. that's probably a more apt description), you've been through so many of life's important moments by my side, and I can't believe I've had the pleasure to call you a close friend for almost a decade. I wouldn't change any of it, except maybe less heartbreaks for both of us. I love you with my whole heart. Thank you for turning my words into something amazing.
If it's not yet clear from my writing about her, I love, adore, and admire Alicia immensely. She once sent me an e-card for my birthday that said "Happy birthday to a friend of a friend that I now like more than the original friend." She's been with me through several relationships, watched me grow as a person, engaged with me in doorstop banditry (I know you're reading this, and this seriously needs to be revived), and she's still loved me along the way. In fact, when I first told her about my diagnosis, she sent me this long, heartfelt email of things she thought I should do at the start of my experience with cancer, offering her company whenever needed. She even took me up on my offer to sit in with me at one of my chemo sessions, getting to witness me looking like Strawberry Shortcake with the cold caps on my head.
But, I digress. At this lounge day at her apartment, every now and again, we'd talk about my writing. I admitted that I wanted to do something with it, but I didn't know where to start. On more than one occasion in the past, I've said to her, "I'm not a writer." and every single time, she counters with, "Whether you think you are or not, you're a writer." Alicia is an incredibly talented writer. I've followed her various blogs ever since I've known her. We share this passion for the written word that I think bonds us together in a way that only other bibliophiles could understand. We also have this intense love of love that makes us complete kindred spirits. So, this afternoon hangout that slowly whispered its way into evening, had us very minimally brainstorming what I could do with my writing. We didn't really come up with a solution that night, but a few days later, she emailed me a link to a writing contest. It was being put on by Bay Area Cancer Connections, a nonprofit for women facing breast and ovarian cancer based in Menlo Park, and it was a call for essays about your cancer experience. This was the perfect place to start, right?
But as soon as this opportunity was in front of me, I got cold feet. Having to relive the fears, anxiety, pain, heartbreak, and frustration of the last 8 months suddenly seemed terrifying. I spent the first few months of my experience trying to compartmentalize it from the rest of my life, choosing to act as though it was just a thing I was dealing with rather than a major life event. Then I embraced it, admitting that it was something that I couldn't ignore, and wanted to find a way to make an impact. I would attempt to write something, and then stop. A paragraph here, a sentence there. Alicia would check in on me to see if I'd made any progress, and I continued to promise her I'd send something soon. Finally, I decided to sit down and just write. I typed and typed until I hit 1,000 words, and then I sent it to her. But, within an hour, I emailed her again, saying that I felt like what I'd written was too vague. I tried to condense my ENTIRE cancer story in a measly two pages. I told her it seemed like maybe I needed to be more focused on perhaps just one issue that had come my way through treatment - relationships, sex and dating, body image, egg harvesting, and mortality, to name a few. I knew in my heart which topic would be the most interesting, but I asked Facebook instead. And, of course, they chose the topic that I wanted to write about the least. It was the most personal, the most heartbreaking because of what happened to me during the decision process, but, it was the most real. My experience with IVF. And what's real is what's interesting. It's never been my goal to sugarcoat my cancer experience. Being raw and real is what makes me who I am. And it's a topic many people don't talk about.
So, again, I put off writing about the topic, because my heart ached every time I even thought about my experience with egg harvesting. The back and forth of trying to make the decision. The anxiety I felt at the instructive class on how to administer injections - with my mom there by my side. Desperately missing the security and support of a partner. But, the deadline was fast approaching, and I didn't want to follow my past (in where I'd say I wanted to do something, but I'd let the opportunity pass me by because I was too afraid). I was going to submit something to this contest. So, I finally started typing again. It was hard to do, because I could tell the story about my IVF experience a thousand different ways, and it would be a different story every time. I sent off my draft to Alicia, and she artfully edited it in a way, that when I read her revisions, I cried as if I was reading someone else's story. But, it was mine, just made so much more raw and real by Alicia's talented hand.
I found out yesterday that my piece WON the contest! At first I was excited, and then I started to down talk myself, thinking "The only reason they picked mine is because no one else submitted anything." But, I realized that wasn't a nice thing to say about myself, so I let that thought go. And so what if that's the truth, I'm still going to be published! My submission will be published in the Bay Area Cancer Connections September newsletter, and I'll be doing a reading of the piece at Kepler's books on September 1 at 7pm.
This is just a small step in the right direction to trying to turn something negative into a positive. I couldn't be more thrilled! Keep an eye out for a post with the submission that won.
And to my dearest, darlingest Alicia - you astonish me at every turn. Your love for life, for love, for words, and your passion for wanting to help others find and follow their dreams are just small parts of what make you so incredibly amazing. From our doorstop banditry days, to you bringing me cookies after I just had my heart broken (or more like put into a meat grinder. that's probably a more apt description), you've been through so many of life's important moments by my side, and I can't believe I've had the pleasure to call you a close friend for almost a decade. I wouldn't change any of it, except maybe less heartbreaks for both of us. I love you with my whole heart. Thank you for turning my words into something amazing.
Friday, August 14, 2015
Everything Changes: Another perspective
On my last post about how everything changes, I was extremely focused on the loss of my former self. I've mentioned on several occasions how I need to mourn the loss of that person, and move forward, but that's easier said than done.
But the next morning, I realized something. Everything is constantly changing, and that's not a bad thing. I am not the same me of last summer, of 8 months ago, of even 5 months ago, or hell, even 5 minutes ago. And there's an extreme amount of beauty in that. It means that at any given moment, we have the power to change (most) whatever it is that's going on that we don't like about ourselves or our lives.
Things change, people change, if life stayed the same all the time, it'd be pretty boring. I didn't need a cancer diagnosis to teach me that, but alas, that's where I'm at.
Lately, I've often referred to "cancer perspective" when talking about things to friends and family. As in, this cancer experience has made me able to really hone in on things that I do and don't want in life. I'm able to be more honest with myself about whether or not I want to finish my MA, what I'm willing to put up with in a relationship, and that despite the money, I'm not okay with the idea of working a job that requires me to work a 50 hour work week. There's no life in that. A good friend of mine is always preaching that you should "Work to live, not live to work." I want to actually be able to enjoy and embrace the rest of my youth, not spend it holed up at a job simply because it pays well. Yes, that's an added benefit, but I want whatever work I do to have meaning. I want to be able to change lives and inspire people.
On Tuesday, I had lunch with my former boss and dear friend who's now more like family. When I expressed all of my concerns to her, she stopped me and pointed out that I was trying to tackle too many things at once. She gently reminded me that right now, I only need to get through radiation. That's my full time job. Then, I should focus on one issue at a time, rather than overwhelm myself and try to solve multiple problems at once. She talked me off my ledge.
Yesterday, at lunch with Becky, I continued to down talk myself - about how I don't like the way that I look at the moment. And she said, "Hey! Don't talk about my friend like that." And that was a slap in the face. She's right. I wouldn't like it if she talked about herself like that. And at this extremely difficult time in my life, I need to be better at being my own best friend. I was doing a decent job of treating myself during chemo - buying flowers to perk myself up - but I haven't done that lately. Becky played that role for me - treating me to lunch, shopping, and a manicure and pedicure, again, reminding me that I should be more gentle with myself. I didn't choose this road, but how I handle it makes all the difference in moving past it.
So yes, everything changes. But I have a choice in I respond to those changes. I choose to be better.
But the next morning, I realized something. Everything is constantly changing, and that's not a bad thing. I am not the same me of last summer, of 8 months ago, of even 5 months ago, or hell, even 5 minutes ago. And there's an extreme amount of beauty in that. It means that at any given moment, we have the power to change (most) whatever it is that's going on that we don't like about ourselves or our lives.
"If you don't like how things are, change it! You are not a tree." - Jim Rohn
Things change, people change, if life stayed the same all the time, it'd be pretty boring. I didn't need a cancer diagnosis to teach me that, but alas, that's where I'm at.
Lately, I've often referred to "cancer perspective" when talking about things to friends and family. As in, this cancer experience has made me able to really hone in on things that I do and don't want in life. I'm able to be more honest with myself about whether or not I want to finish my MA, what I'm willing to put up with in a relationship, and that despite the money, I'm not okay with the idea of working a job that requires me to work a 50 hour work week. There's no life in that. A good friend of mine is always preaching that you should "Work to live, not live to work." I want to actually be able to enjoy and embrace the rest of my youth, not spend it holed up at a job simply because it pays well. Yes, that's an added benefit, but I want whatever work I do to have meaning. I want to be able to change lives and inspire people.
On Tuesday, I had lunch with my former boss and dear friend who's now more like family. When I expressed all of my concerns to her, she stopped me and pointed out that I was trying to tackle too many things at once. She gently reminded me that right now, I only need to get through radiation. That's my full time job. Then, I should focus on one issue at a time, rather than overwhelm myself and try to solve multiple problems at once. She talked me off my ledge.
Yesterday, at lunch with Becky, I continued to down talk myself - about how I don't like the way that I look at the moment. And she said, "Hey! Don't talk about my friend like that." And that was a slap in the face. She's right. I wouldn't like it if she talked about herself like that. And at this extremely difficult time in my life, I need to be better at being my own best friend. I was doing a decent job of treating myself during chemo - buying flowers to perk myself up - but I haven't done that lately. Becky played that role for me - treating me to lunch, shopping, and a manicure and pedicure, again, reminding me that I should be more gentle with myself. I didn't choose this road, but how I handle it makes all the difference in moving past it.
So yes, everything changes. But I have a choice in I respond to those changes. I choose to be better.
"Incredible change happens in your life when you decide to take control of what you have power over instead of craving control over what you don't." - Steve Maraboli
"You aren't what's happened to you, you are how you overcome it." - Beau Taplin
"Some women are lost in the fire. Some women are built from it." - Michelle K
"I survived because the fire inside me burned brighter than the fire around me." - Joshua Graham
Adornments
I have this insane love of quotes. I keep a journal of quotes that inspire me and touch my soul. I'll admit that lately, I've been neglecting it. I picked it up again the other day to add more to it, and I only wrote in a few new inscriptions. I think I haven't had the courage to pick it up because I associate this journal with my path of self discovery from last year, a time where I was mostly happy. I'm renewing that path to happiness, albeit slowly, so I'm going to start adding to that journal again. Alicia sent me this quote yesterday, and I fell in love with it.
“Now and then, an inch below the water's surface, the muscles of his stomach tightened involuntarily as he recalled another detail. A drop of water on her upper arm. Wet. An embroidered flower, a simple daisy, sewn between the cups of her bra. Her breasts wide apart and small. On her back, a mole half covered by a strap. When she climbed out of the pond a glimpse of the triangular darkness her knickers were supposed to conceal. Wet. He saw it, he made himself see it again. The way her pelvic bones stretched the material clear of the skin, the deep curve of her waist, her startling whiteness. When she reached for her skirt, a carelessly raised foot revealed a patch of soil on each pad of her sweetly diminished toes. Another mole the size of a farthing on her thigh and something purplish on her calf--a strawberry mark, a scar. Not blemishes. Adornments.”
“Now and then, an inch below the water's surface, the muscles of his stomach tightened involuntarily as he recalled another detail. A drop of water on her upper arm. Wet. An embroidered flower, a simple daisy, sewn between the cups of her bra. Her breasts wide apart and small. On her back, a mole half covered by a strap. When she climbed out of the pond a glimpse of the triangular darkness her knickers were supposed to conceal. Wet. He saw it, he made himself see it again. The way her pelvic bones stretched the material clear of the skin, the deep curve of her waist, her startling whiteness. When she reached for her skirt, a carelessly raised foot revealed a patch of soil on each pad of her sweetly diminished toes. Another mole the size of a farthing on her thigh and something purplish on her calf--a strawberry mark, a scar. Not blemishes. Adornments.”
- Atonement
And, as many people keep telling me, scars are sexy. So, I'm still trying hard to continue to embrace mine. They're not the first ones to grace my skin, just the most intimate.
Wednesday, August 12, 2015
Everything Changes
I recently finished reading a book titled "Everything Changes: The Insider's Guid to Cancer in Your 20's and 30's". It was a good book. So many of the issues that were raised were extremely relevant to my experience with cancer. Even if you're not going through cancer yourself, I recommend it. It's a good read. It really offers a good perspective of what the young adult experience with cancer is like. I think the author could've addressed some topics of concern a lot more in depth than she did, but hey, it's not my book.
The title of the book should be the motto for cancer. "Everything changes." It's true. Everything does change. Your appearance, your health, your appreciation for life... I know that there's a million quotes about not looking at the past, you're not going that way/you don't live there, but after going through such a rigorous treatment regimen, it's extremely hard not to look at the past. I miss that version of me. The young, vibrant, healthy, naive, happy woman who was finally learning how to love herself. A year ago today, I remember going to the Saddlerack with Teresa to just go out and have a good time. We turned a lot of heads that night, simply because of how happy we looked. We were positively radiant. I absolutely loved my body, so for the first time in my life, I was standing tall, smiling from ear to ear, sending my positive vibes into the world. A common thing for people to tell me is that I'll look back on my cancer experience as something that made me a stronger person, but I already felt like I was pretty strong. Cancer knocked me down at my highest point. And yeah, sure, maybe it's because the universe had more to teach me about loving myself in the face of adversity, but damn it, the universe could've sent me a gentler message.
I lament the loss of the woman I was last summer, and people tell me that I'm still beautiful now. Perhaps even more so now than a year ago because of all of the struggles I've faced, and have persevered. I appreciate those comments, and I know that they come from a good place, but I hate cancer Whitney. I mean, I don't hate her, but I don't particularly love her. I feel fat and puffy, my clothes don't fit, I'm tired all the time because of radiation, I have hot flashes in the middle of the night that make it so I don't sleep well, my eyebrows are growing in at a snail's pace, and now my eyelashes are falling out... it's a never ending cycle. Just when I think more of my old me is returning, something else comes up that puts even more distance between the me now and the me of last summer.
I know that I'm being too hard on myself. I should love this amazing body of mine. This body of mine has conquered so many things over the last 8 months. It's kicked ass through it's first major surgery, which produced clean margins and a smaller tumor, and then kicked even more ass during its second major surgery, producing a good amount of eggs for harvesting (this always makes me feel like I'm talking about Easter egg hunting). It got me through chemotherapy with minimal, and manageable, side effects, and now it's making its way through radiation with flying colors. Today, my radiation oncologist commended my skin for how it's held up over these last 5 weeks.
Last summer, I was so incredibly proud of the work I'd put in toward building muscle, that I would flex at people. Especially when drunk. It was extremely entertaining. This summer, I'm freely showing people the scars on my breast. So, yeah, everything definitely changes.
While I'm still mourning the loss of the woman I was a year ago, I'm grateful for that time I spent getting to know myself better. I learned a lot valuable lessons in between May and November of last year. It's given me a glimpse of the person that I want to become, and helping me realize that it's an attainable goal. So, I may not love this current version of me as much as I should, but she's someone I have to accept and love on the journey to being the me I want to be. The beauty of life is that if you don't like where you are, you have the power to change it. I plan on doing just that. But, you know, after my armpit stops peeling and I get the clearance from my doctors.
Below are some pictures of pre-cancer me. I know that I'll see her again, just a stronger, braver version. It's just going to take some time.
Infamous flexing pictures. I would've been more than happy to tell you which way the beach was, should you so ask.
The title of the book should be the motto for cancer. "Everything changes." It's true. Everything does change. Your appearance, your health, your appreciation for life... I know that there's a million quotes about not looking at the past, you're not going that way/you don't live there, but after going through such a rigorous treatment regimen, it's extremely hard not to look at the past. I miss that version of me. The young, vibrant, healthy, naive, happy woman who was finally learning how to love herself. A year ago today, I remember going to the Saddlerack with Teresa to just go out and have a good time. We turned a lot of heads that night, simply because of how happy we looked. We were positively radiant. I absolutely loved my body, so for the first time in my life, I was standing tall, smiling from ear to ear, sending my positive vibes into the world. A common thing for people to tell me is that I'll look back on my cancer experience as something that made me a stronger person, but I already felt like I was pretty strong. Cancer knocked me down at my highest point. And yeah, sure, maybe it's because the universe had more to teach me about loving myself in the face of adversity, but damn it, the universe could've sent me a gentler message.
I lament the loss of the woman I was last summer, and people tell me that I'm still beautiful now. Perhaps even more so now than a year ago because of all of the struggles I've faced, and have persevered. I appreciate those comments, and I know that they come from a good place, but I hate cancer Whitney. I mean, I don't hate her, but I don't particularly love her. I feel fat and puffy, my clothes don't fit, I'm tired all the time because of radiation, I have hot flashes in the middle of the night that make it so I don't sleep well, my eyebrows are growing in at a snail's pace, and now my eyelashes are falling out... it's a never ending cycle. Just when I think more of my old me is returning, something else comes up that puts even more distance between the me now and the me of last summer.
I know that I'm being too hard on myself. I should love this amazing body of mine. This body of mine has conquered so many things over the last 8 months. It's kicked ass through it's first major surgery, which produced clean margins and a smaller tumor, and then kicked even more ass during its second major surgery, producing a good amount of eggs for harvesting (this always makes me feel like I'm talking about Easter egg hunting). It got me through chemotherapy with minimal, and manageable, side effects, and now it's making its way through radiation with flying colors. Today, my radiation oncologist commended my skin for how it's held up over these last 5 weeks.
Last summer, I was so incredibly proud of the work I'd put in toward building muscle, that I would flex at people. Especially when drunk. It was extremely entertaining. This summer, I'm freely showing people the scars on my breast. So, yeah, everything definitely changes.
While I'm still mourning the loss of the woman I was a year ago, I'm grateful for that time I spent getting to know myself better. I learned a lot valuable lessons in between May and November of last year. It's given me a glimpse of the person that I want to become, and helping me realize that it's an attainable goal. So, I may not love this current version of me as much as I should, but she's someone I have to accept and love on the journey to being the me I want to be. The beauty of life is that if you don't like where you are, you have the power to change it. I plan on doing just that. But, you know, after my armpit stops peeling and I get the clearance from my doctors.
Below are some pictures of pre-cancer me. I know that I'll see her again, just a stronger, braver version. It's just going to take some time.
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